


Parker

by galactics



Category: The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Shower Sex, Unrequited Love, can you tell i suck at tags, how do people have like fifty tags i don't get it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-12
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-24 11:42:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1603913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galactics/pseuds/galactics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Osborn returns to New York without a clear vision in mind of what his purpose is. He’s there to see his father, obviously, and feel intensely emotionally guilty, but that and crying should only account for a day or two of his time. That's why he's glad when Peter Parker shows up. Mostly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this in five hours the day after I saw The Amazing Spider-Man 2. Explicit for Chapter 2 and a little bit of Chapter 1.
> 
> Also this entire fic hinges on Harry not getting as angry as in the amazing spiderman. that's it.
> 
> EXTREME SPOILERS - IF YOU HAVEN'T SEEN AMAZING SPIDERMAN 2 AND YOU READ THIS AND YOU EXPECT NOT TO HAVE SPOILERS YOU'RE SCREWED BUDDY
> 
> ==
> 
> Updated 11/23/14

Harry Osborn returns to New York without a clear vision in mind of what his purpose is. He’s there to see his father, obviously, and feel intensely emotionally guilty, but that and crying should only account for a day or two of his time. Being a very rich person since before you could walk has its disadvantages, one of those being that you feel very betrayed when you’re bored.

As such, Harry feels very, _very_ betrayed when he is forced to sit in on what might be the most mind-numbing meeting of his entire life. The lawyers are all idiots, his father’s assistant clearly hates him despite trying to pretend otherwise, and his own assistant, who probably has more important things that she’s thinking about, is the only competent one there. He’s about ready to take his pen off the table and ram it down his throat when one of the house’s servants walks in with a restrained smile on his face to announce, “A friend is here to see you, Mr. Osborn.”

That’s odd. Harry doesn’t have friends. Not real ones, anyway.

Peter is standing at the door, staring at the wall, and looking very nervous. He’s taller, that’s for sure, at least 50% geekier, and really, really, attractive.

“Peter Parker,” Harry says, watching his words snake their way down to greet the boy that he barely recognizes. “It’s like seeing a ghost.”

Peter spins. He looks very, very surprised, eyebrows yanked up to his hairline. “Harry.”

Harry raises his eyebrows in return. “I hope you weren’t expecting anyone else.”

“No, no,” Peter says quickly. “I just—you’re still short.”

Harry groans and turns away, laughing when Peter bounds up the stairs to spin him around and pull him into a hug. They cling to each other, balancing on the top of the staircase, swaying back and forth. “You’re still a dweeb,” Harry mumbles into the top of Peter’s shoulder, since that’s where he stands now.

“And you’re still a _pretentious_ dweeb,” Peter says back, clapping him on the back. “Missed you, buddy.”

“Missed you,” Harry murmurs, gripping at Peter's back in return. Harry can tell that Peter is still _such_ a geek, just like Harry remembers. The years they didn’t talk seem pointless now—it’s all too easy for them in the few seconds they've had.

Peter pulls away after a moment, grinning down at him. “You busy?”

Harry frowns. “A little, yeah.” He speaks up again when Peter’s face falls. “But I don’t give a shit about it. You want to get out of here?”

Peter grins and they’re down the stairs in an instant.

Leaving scheduled events to determine the future of a massive company is remarkably relatable to hopping over railings to get closer to the water. Harry thinks so, at least. They’re both surprisingly easy, given the lax nature of the Oscorp board and the guards whose jobs revolve entirely around keeping people on the bridge. It’s almost comforting to know that he can break the rules when he wants to.

Peter has been upholding most of the rules. He’s graduated from the fancy science school, apparently, and is going off to another fancy science school that is way more expensive (as Peter calls it, college). Harry offers to pay Peter's tuition. Peter declines, but Harry is very aware of how his hands twitch when he says how much his student loans will weigh on him.

It appears things really have changed.

Dead parents and all that.

“I’m pretty sure he brought me down here to yell at me with his last breath,” Harry says scornfully as he flicks another rock. It sinks after one skip.

Peter stares out after it. “I’m sure he loved you.”

“He threw me away,” Harry says quietly. Another rock, which goes for two skips. It lifts his spirit in such a miniscule way that he might actually be more depressed.

“So did mine,” Peter says, looking up at him. “Then they left. They might not even actually be dead.”

Harry rocks back and forth. He should conduct studies on the best ways to keep oneself from crying. “I’m sorry, Pete.”

“No, it’s cool.” Peter shrugs. He reaches to rub Harry’s forearm. “It’s cool.”

When Harry does start crying, Peter doesn’t say a word. It’s almost worrying how he’s used to it—or maybe he just expects it of his long-missing friend.

The rest of the day goes by in sections of ice cream and various tidbits about Peter’s personal life. Vanilla is now his favorite flavor of ice cream (it used to be chocolate), and he’s in a complicated relationship with a girl named Gwen Stacy. She works at Oscorp, apparently, and is possibly more of a genius than Harry. Peter talks about her like she’s the sun. Harry talks about her like she’s disposable.

They wish each other goodbye and it feels like they’re going to end up eight years apart again.

Time passes, if only in minutes. Harry drinks. Harry smokes. The days at Oscorp drag on.

Peter calls.

 -

The river is impossibly calmer when Peter invites him there again. The waves are small, the water slipping through the rocky shore rather than crashing down on it. The sun beats down on them, so much so that Peter has to pull off his sweater in favor of the t-shirt underneath, and Harry has to roll up the legs of his jeans so he can wade into the cool water. Peter stays on the shore, but does try to push Harry over no less than three times.

Peter whistles as Harry manages to throw a rock all the way out to a buoy. “Impressive.” He squints up at Harry from where he's crouched on the rocks. He forgot his sunglasses again. “You’ve been practicing.”

Harry shrugs with a smirk. The servants hate it when he throws rocks in the pool, but it’s worth it. “A little. You’ll still always beat me.”

Peter laughs, joins him in the surf, and tosses another to emphasize this point. The rock skips out over the waves, disappearing before they can watch it sink. “Again, all in the wrist.”

Harry snorts. “I could practice for a million years. Hell, I could get a bionic wrist and I’d still never be as good as you.”

If Peter’s bothered by that, he doesn’t show it. He just shakes his head and lets loose on another rock, sending it out into the water. “You’re a genius, Harry. You’ll find a way.”

“I hope so, because I don’t want to sit here and watch you be like a god damn superhero for the next five hours.”

“Eh. We’ve already got one of those.”

Harry wrinkles his nose. “Spiderman. He’s all show. Spandex and saving kittens from trees, that’s all it is.”

Peter drops his head to the side, another rock flying from his fingertips out into the blue water. “I think he gives people hope. Like this city’s going to be okay one day. You know, not plagued by super villains.”

Harry snorts. “I hope you’re right. Be a damn shame to come back to a city in ruins.”

Time passes, Harry drinks, Harry smokes, the days at Oscorp drag on, Peter calls, and Harry falls in love with him for the second time since they were nine without realizing it.

 -

Harry feels he’s justified when he gets off to Peter’s image. He didn’t use to, not when they were first reunited, but after the second meeting, he finds himself picturing the boy more often. He’s fit now, and tall, with large eyes and good hair—essentially what Harry likes in any of his partners, male or female. If Peter’s career as a scientist ever conks out, he could always be a model.

Harry, despite being a billionaire who abides by the great policy of “if I can’t control it, then it’s not worth putting my time out for,” has had said policy utterly trashed by the boy that is Peter Parker. He will always put time out for the uncontrollable images of Peter biting down on the sleeve of his shirt when he’s thinking, or the muscles in his stomach clenching when he lifts himself over the railing to the river, shirt riding up to reveal his abs, or the perfect way he smiles. Too perfect.

The first time he does get off to Peter, it starts with him being struck with one of the aforementioned images. He’s bent over the back of a couch to look for a dropped item, and all of a sudden, Peter is behind him, grinding into him and whispering how he’s loved him always and pushing his instantly hard cock into the couch. Before he knows it, Harry is gasping and palming himself through his jeans. He struggles to release himself as he envisions Peter again, all gangly but muscular limbs. There’s a moment of hesitation as he tries to remember where he keeps the lube, relief coming when he realizes he keeps a bottle in the side table next to the couch. He balances with his forehead pressed against the couch cushions as the hand not on his length snakes behind him to ease a finger into his ass, then two, then three, while he thumbs at the head of his cock. He comes with a gasp and a shout into his own hand, cursing a moment later when he’s stained both his couch and his dignity.

Because jerking off to your friend is just the littlest bit embarrassing.

The next day, he runs across a hooker who so closely resembles Peter it’s ten times beyond creepy and rides him for a full hour, bringing him close to the edge and back. He’s hardly satisfied when he does come, though by the way the Peter-lookalike grips Harry’s hips so hard they might bruise, he certainly is.

After he gets a voicemail from Peter that catches him while he’s jerking off, his jokingly sultry  _Come on, Osborn—wouldn't you do anything for me?_ sending shivers down his spine as he spills into his sock like a teenager, he spends the next week purposely missing Peter’s calls. It gets to a point where Peter starts to sound worried. Harry has a soft spot for people actually caring about him. He texts him to come over. Peter’s there within five minutes.

Harry wrinkles his nose when Peter suggests heading down to the river again. “It’s freezing out,” he says pointedly, hovering on his doorstep and glaring out at the foggy streets. “I’ll gladly go if you’d like to be an icicle.”

Peter rolls his eyes. He’s not bothered by the cold, his jacket hanging over his arm. “It’s only fifty out, Oz. We don’t have to be there forever.”

“On the contrary. My body mass is far down the spectrum from yours; I’ll be iced over before you can even blink.”

“There’s not even ice on the ground, Harry.”

Harry shakes his head. “Come inside; we’ll hang out here until the board calls me up again.”

Peter shrugs. “Sure, I can stay for five minutes.”

Harry snorts and steps back to let him in. Peter still seems uneasy in the large entrance hall, which is lit up with light to counteract the “cold.” He forks over his jacket to one of the house employees and follows Harry in a daze. Harry goes up the stairs and farther back into the mansion, heading to the den.

Peter whistles when they enter. “Has this gotten more decked out since I was here last?”

“Probably. My dad had this thing about making things look more expensive the worse he got.” Harry plops down on the couch, grabbing the remote, pulling a blanket over his legs, and patting the space beside him. “I’m still finding things that I’ve never seen before. Lots of big TVs.”

“If you don’t want them, I’m all in,” Peter says, folding himself up beside Harry. “Let’s veg.”

Peter falls asleep after an hour or two of The Vampire Diaries (Harry’s secret addiction that he manages to casually pass off as a mild pleasure). The circles under his eyes look like they’ve been carved out. Harry lets him sleep, pushing the blanket over him. Peter regresses into a fetal position as the day wears on. His head eventually comes to rest on Harry’s thigh, and after another few minutes, Harry finds himself carding his hands through  Peter’s hair. _Friends do that, right_?

When Peter wakes, Harry is on the opposite side of the couch, staring at the screen with a concerned look on his face. Peter apologizes fifty times for falling asleep. Harry placates him and sends him home, ignoring the tightening in his chest. It’s probably nothing. Probably.

 -

Their conversations seem to be spiraling down into deeper philosophical meaning, culminating in Harry calling Peter very early in the morning and confessing to him that in a few years time his body will have gutted itself like a fish. When Peter arrives, Harry advances to pleading with him to help catch an elusive vigilante to acquire his blood.

Peter blinks as he stands in the conference room at Oscorp. “What?”

“You said so yourself, I’m a genius," Harry says flatly, tossing down the newspaper onto the table and jabbing at the corner. “You took this picture. You know him. No one could’ve gotten this close without telling him to show up at this spot, this angle.”

“Harry,” Peter says, with a desperate sort of tone to his voice, which isn't fair, because Harry’s the one who’s supposed to be desperate. His eyes are wide, his gaze darting over Harry’s face. “I don’t.”

“Please don’t lie to me, Peter,” Harry says. His grip tightens on the paper. He tries as best he can to drill his stare into Peter’s. “I’m dying, just like my father. I can fix this with your help.”

“Harry,” Peter says again. He stands, his eyes going back to the paper. “I can’t, Harry, I don’t know him.”

It’s a speech, a rehearsal, and if Harry is lied to one more _fucking_ time he will explode, especially if the liar is someone who is supposed to be his best friend. “Don’t, Peter. You’ll help me or you won’t.”

There’s a small pulse in the air. Harry’s a genius, and he still can’t explain it. “Okay,” Peter says quietly, “okay. I’ll find Spiderman,” and then he’s gone.

Harry slumps back into his chair. There is no reason why his life is suddenly entirely uprooted, but Peter’s going to help him fix it. That’s all he needs to know.

- 

Spider-Man is a fraud.

Spider-Man is a black hole of crushed hopes and death, and he will be the end of this city.

Spider-Man will be the end of Harry Osborn.

 -

Time passes. Harry drinks, to mask the pain. Harry smokes, to draw attention away from the ugly scar on his neck. The days at Oscorp drag on.

Peter does not call, and for the first time in his life, Harry is glad.

Bottom line: he trusted someone, and that someone stomped all over him and spat in his face. Despite that, all Harry can bring himself to be is tired.

Bottom line: he should have never trusted Parker.

 -

Harry Osborn does not _mope_. He does not sulk and he does not pout, thank you very much, and if you say so and are anyone apart from Felicia, there is a very large chance you will be fired before the words can leave your mouth.

Harry’s been firing a lot of people lately.

He’s busy not-sulking and drinking and glaring at the wall when the intercom buzzes and Felicia sighs out, “Harry—Mr. Osborn, I know you’re in there. You’ve got to come out sometime.”

“Wrong,” he says, pouring himself another glass. “I actually don’t. You’re more than capable of running this company. As if the board’s not trying to have me booted anyway.”

“You and I both know that is very true, but you can’t do anything about it if you’re in your room all day.”

“This is my White House, Felicia. I can do anything here. Fuck off for a bit, will you?” Felicia is the only person Harry can tell to fuck off without them getting pissed.

She does so, and Harry is alone in the quiet and the auburn of the scotch for another few hours before the intercom buzzes again. “Harry, please. At least for a little while?”

Harry works for a few hours when she calls, then a few hours more, then some more, and soon Felicia has to force him out of the office and into bed rather than the other way around. They’re almost friends, but then Harry remembers that whole thing about his best friend betraying him and technically murdering him, and he really doesn’t want to think about Felicia technically murdering him either.

His job gets steadily more difficult as he descends into the inner workings of Oscorp. Almost by a sheer miracle, he wanders into his father’s files, a database of hidden information and really obvious passcodes. It doesn’t worry him until he reaches a folder titled Special Projects. Inside, he finds nothing else besides the death of an employee. Oh, and the plans he had submitted for the power grid that Oscorp had blatantly stolen, and the transformation of the employee into the terrifying monster that had wrecked Times Square a week ago. He doesn't know why he bothers being surprised by anything at this point.

He fires his dad’s stupid personal assistant who clearly has committed about ten felonies and the host of other people who tried to bury this, which takes about ten lawyers on his side to prevent him from getting booted. It’s helpful to have Felicia on your side; she’s great with alibis. After Harry’s done cleansing his company, he hires a bunch of new people.

He also keeps an eye on Gwen Stacy. She’s smart, and she knows Parker. He runs into her in an elevator, and she’s even prettier and smarter in person. It takes every ounce of willpower he has not to drop kick her.

His life is very complicated.

He goes to bed very late, and drinks, and smokes, again. He might get alcohol poisoning or lung cancer and off himself before the Osborn curse even gets to him. He’d consider himself lucky, given how awful his old man had looked on his last legs. God forbid he ever lets his hair look like that.

Every inch of Harry reeks of disease, aside from the places where Parker overlaid his fingertips.

Harry not-sulks even more than usual and thinks about Parker, and it's during one of his laps around his room on the days that Felicia decides not to bother him that he pales and rushes to his desk. He goes over the digital copy of the paper he showed to Parker again.

The stupid concept of hope. The avoiding the question. The unwillingness to give him Spider-Man, the apologies. _I can’t, Harry_. His ability to be surprised returns.

Harry throws a lot of things and drinks a lot and smokes a lot on the day he finds out Parker is Spider-Man. Not like that’s any different from any other day.

Drunken rages seem to develop after he finds out the big news, which leads to him calling Parker at four in the morning after having done cocaine off some hooker’s back. “Parker,” he slurs into the phone after stumbling into the hallway. “I know you’re that spidey guy. You and him, you, you killed me, didn’t you?”

The hooker looks concerned. He’s not.

 -

Parker knocks on his window three weeks later, then opens it without waiting for a response. “Honey, I’m home!”

Harry grabs the nearest glass and hurls it at him, missing awfully and just shattering another window pane.

Parker scuttles backwards, then reappears when he thinks Harry won’t want to hit him again. “What? Sensitive about the whole househusband thing? You volunteered to give up your career!”

Harry wants to punch the red right out of his mask. He can feel himself flushing, breathing hard. “Why are you here?” he hisses instead, struggling to keep his voice down.

“Sorry. That was...rude.” Parker grips the window frame so hard it might break. One hand is cradling his side—his ripped suit. There’s more sirens in the background that are getting gradually louder. “I need your help,” he says. “Can I come in?”

Harry doesn’t bother responding, instead pivoting and stalking off into the room. He hears Parker slip in behind him and pull the window shut, ignoring him in favor of pouring himself a drink (a big one at that). “Come to see me off?” he asks coldly. He turns and leans against the table. “Or shouldn’t you be saving everyone else?”

“Harry,” Parker says. “Please.” He takes his hand away from his abdomen, and Harry has to will himself from recoiling as the torn suit falls away to reveal the full extent of the wound. It’s a long gash with ragged edges that cuts deep into Parker’s side. He’s bleeding, very much so, and if it weren’t Peter, Harry would be screaming at him to get off the damn priceless rug he’s standing on.

“So you’re dying too,” he says thickly. He swallows. “You didn’t care much when it was me.”

Parker doesn’t say anything, just turns for the window again. Harry dashes forward and grabs his arm right before he falls, and instead lowers him down onto the (also priceless) settee. “Gwen,” is all he says. “Or a damn hospital, Parker. Why me?”

“Not Gwen,” he says, trying to pull himself up by grabbing Harry’s ( _very expensive_ ) jacket. “Hurts too much. You know. The whole tearing my heart out thing.”

“So I’m the lesser of two evils,” Harry says darkly, pushing him back down. “Good to know. Sit _still_ , damn it.”

Parker relents and goes limp, pulling off his mask before he blows out a breath. “I’m sorry, Harry.”

“Sit still,” Harry mumbles again, before tripping over himself as he turns away to get something to fix this. Parker's arm flies out and steadies him. “Get _off_ me,” Harry snaps, pushing him away and power-walking away from the living room. There’s medicine in the kitchen, which is a long ways away, and the first main bathroom, which is also a long ways away, and the first hall closet, which is closer but may or may not contain a gigantic rat that also may or may not be dead (which is something Harry doesn’t need to see either way).

He yanks open the closet door and lets out a pathetic shriek as said rat skitters out the door and down the hall, no doubt to reproduce by the dozens. He doesn’t worry about it, just plows through supplies until he finds a few spare towels and a questionable bottle of painkillers. Harry hesitates before leaving, then darts back in and grabs the duct tape before running back down the hall.

Parker looks about ready to pass out when Harry rushes back in. “The suit,” Harry says, sitting down beside the settee in a rush. “Off, now.”

“You that eager to see me naked, Osborn?” Parker slurs, and there’s a pang in Harry’s chest, because he’s _Harry_ and the only people who call him Osborn are assholes.

“Whatever floats your boat, idiot. Get it off so I can help you stop dying.”

Parker does what he’s told, stripping off the torso and pulling it down to his hips. Harry shoves the towels down on his side before he can lose any more blood. “This is what they do for wounds, isn’t it?” he mumbles to himself, even though he knows it. “Stop the bleeding?”

“I’m a genius, not a doctor,” Parker wheezes.

“Ha, ha. Shut up.” Harry pushes down again to make his point.

Parker grunts. “I could’ve killed you if I'd given you my blood.”

“I said shut up. You're lucky I don't just take it now."

_"Don't!"_

"I'm not being serious. God. You're an ass."

“I could've _kill_ _ed_ you! I couldn't do that to you, not in a million years." There's a moment of silence. "You’re my best friend, Harry.”

He’s just a fucking best friend, that’s all he’ll ever be, and it's the straw that breaks the camel's back.“Yeah? Well, Parker, I was in love with you before you ripped my heart out, threw it out on the ground, and stomped on it with your stupid superhuman strength, so shut up. Bet you know how that feels, you and your perfect blonde genius girl."

“In love with—?” Peter suddenly gasps as Harry pushes down harder. “Ouch! That hurts.”

“That’s the point," Harry growls, blood boiling. "You should've gone to a fucking hospital."

Parker shuts up. When Harry has patched over his wound and given him a hoodie of his, Parker leaves. It’s a horribly unsatisfying outcome, but one that Harry expected. Since they’ve come to expect such great things from each other.

 -

Harry is sleeping when Felicia calls in. “Board meeting for you, sir.”

He groans and gets dressed and complains all the way into the car. They get stuck in traffic on the bridge, of course, but Felicia is smiling oddly and points out the window.

Harry looks after her finger and can only let out a strangled gasp. _I love you_ , says the giant webbing stitched in between the bridge suspensions, and it would be the most romantic thing he's ever seen if he wasn't certain _IT'S FOR THAT FUCKING STACY CHICK_. Harry gets out of the car in the middle of traffic and goes out to the side. He only has a second to gape before the wind is whistling past his ear and he’s hanging onto Peter Parker for dear life as the bridge and the water is disappearing beneath them.

“Get my message?” Peter yells over the gush of wind. “Was it too subtle?”

“You have no right,” Harry says when they land, perched at the top of the bridge. “I’m still pissed at you.”

“Are you going to be pissed at me after I tell you I love you?” Peter bursts out quickly. He's smiling like a maniac. “Because I love you. I have for all the eleven years you were with me, and the eight you weren’t, and the month you’ve been here and have hated my guts. I love you, and Gwen and I are almost done with a cure.”

Harry absorbs all this with a shock to his heart. "Speaking of Gwen."

Peter takes a deep breath. "I love her. Best friend love!" he yells when Harry's hand comes up. "Just friends, Harry."

Harry wants to pass out and fall off the damn bridge into the water. “You couldn’t have told me any of this before? Really?”

“Nope.” Peter shakes his head. “Secrecy was all a part of my plan.”

“Almost bleeding out in my bedroom was a part of the plan?” Harry’s voice is very shrill.

“Yep,” Peter says happily. His phone rings, and he groans. “Sorry. Might be Gwen.” Harry’s lip curls at the suggestion, even more so when Peter picks up. “Yello?”

“MAX IS CUTTING OFF THE POWER,” Harry can hear Gwen scream. “HUR—“

The lights of the city go out one by one and then all at once, plunging them into moonlit darkness. It would be romantic if it wasn't scary as all hell. “Oh, god,” Peter says. “That’s not good.”

“The grid,” Harry says. “That’s his design.” He pounds on Peter’s chest. “We have to stop him!”

Peter shakes his head. “Agh, I can’t! He’ll fry my web shooters and I’ll be toast after a minute. Literally.”

Harry quirks an eyebrow. “You haven’t magnetized them? I learned that in the eight grade. Are things different in American public schools?”

Peter groans and they’re swinging again, touching down outside the Osborn mansion. “Jumper cables,” Harry says. He snaps his fingers. “And copper wire. I remember this.” He sprints to the garage and then back, panting when he returns. Peter is pacing up and down in his costume and looks very, very ridiculous. Harry rushes forward, and boom, the deed is done. Peter hoots and proceeds to web him to the nearest wall.

“Peter!” he shrieks. "That is  _so_ not fair!"

“Sorry, I love you!” Peter yells as he swings away. "Be safe!"

Harry gives him the middle finger and grabs a nearby nail, slicing off the webbing. (He has to remember to schedule a tetanus shot.) He dives into the nearest car in the extensive Osborn garage, keys already in place, and speeds away to the grid.

Busting through a gate with a vehicle is a lot less dramatic than you hope when the boy you love is getting his ass beaten into the ground. Fortunately, Peter douses Electro in water from a nearby pipe and spots Harry, swinging over before Harry’s even out of the car.

“How the hell did you get out?” he asks frantically. “You can’t be here!”

“You’re so incredibly wrong that it’d take ten minutes to explain it to you,” Harry drawls. “I know how to reset the grid. I’m the only one who knows how, in fact.”

Peter thinks. “Gwen knows.”

Harry snarls. “I’m all you’ve got. We’ve got to fry him—which means you’ve got to connect the main power lines.” He points, grabbing Peter’s hand and moving it along with his. “The best bet is with your webs.”

“Electrocute the electrocution guy,” Peter says. “Nice.” He turns, yanks off his mask, and kisses Harry fiercely. He pulls back after a moment. “What’s our success rate?”

“Of that kiss on our relationship or the electrocuting thing?”

“Um. Both?”

“Ninety and eighty,” Harry replies. “Not in that order.” Peter grimaces as Harry laughs. “One more quick question. Do we have to kill him?”

“Now is not the time to take the moral high ground, Harry,” Peter says before Electro slams into him and carries him away.

Harry sprints for the control room and races up the stairs, unlocking the thick padlock on the dashboard with a nearby guard’s key. “Come on, idiot,” he mutters, staring at the disconnected power line. “Hurry up.” There are various crashes and groans from outside his vision, and Peter comes sailing backwards, smacking into a power coil before plummeting to the ground. Harry’s heart stops for a second before Peter is up again, swinging off towards the main line.

Two flicks of the web-contraption-thingies (Harry’s still not certain what the hell they are) and a good yank later, the lines are together. Peter yells, “Now, Harry!”

He throws the switch and claps a hand over his eyes as a brilliant light floods the control room. Harry crouches on the floor for a moment until the sizzling has died down, then stands, leaning over the dashboard to peer down at the ground.

Peter doesn’t look like he’s moving.

As a contrast, Harry has never moved as fast in his life. He makes it down to the ground in record time, stepping over the remainder of Electro on the way. He slides in next to Peter and pulls him up into his arms. “Peter?” he says insistently. Harry presses his hand over Peter's mouth and nose. It’s barely there through the mask, but he’s breathing. “Peter?” He waits a second, then gives up waiting and rips the mask off.

“Ow,” Peter coughs in response, waving his hand over his face. “Who fired up the grill?”

“Oh, god,” Harry breathes out, dropping his head to Peter’s chest. “Oh, my god.”

Peter lays a hand on Harry’s back. “Hey, hey there. Calm down. It’s okay. I’m good.”

“You’re an asshole,” Harry says weakly. He thumps a hand on Peter’s leg, grabbing at his thigh a moment later. “How dare you? How dare you almost die on me?”

“I love you,” Peter says, rubbing his back. “I had to protect you, Harry.”

“Asshole,” Harry can only repeat, pulling Peter into a hug and cradling him closer. “Asshole.”

“Just to reaffirm this to I don't get murdered, I love you,” Peter repeats, muffled from his place in Harry’s neck.

“Shut up,” Harry says shakily. “I love _you_.”

“We’re okay,” Peter says. He pulls Harry down for a kiss, melding them together again. Harry supposes that yes, someday he’ll learn to forgive Peter for nearly killing him. After Peter cures him, that is.

He and Gwen do indeed cure him a week later, as soon as Peter is done recovering. Harry has to fight to keep him in bed instead of going to the lab every five minutes. There’s a lot you can get done with three geniuses, even if one of those geniuses is recovering from nearly being fried to death.

Harry has to admit, it’s nice knowing he’ll probably go from smoking rather than being in love with Peter Parker.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TURN DOWN FOR EMOTIONAL STRUGGLES AND SHOWER SEX

Harry hears the thrum of the water start up and makes the decision to drag himself out of bed. Typically, he doesn’t have to work to see Peter naked, but it’s been a rough three weeks, and Peter’s been freezing him out. (Harry doesn’t want to bother him—he’s not one to push, and people aren’t his forte.) Lately, he’s gone out the door Peter Parker and come back Spider-Man. The former has a big laugh and strong arms, and the latter has a brooding complex and sits on the roof for annoyingly extended periods of time.

Peter’s been living with him since a few weeks after Harry was cured. Harry made it his mission to make sure May and Peter never had financial troubles again, despite their flurry of protests. This included secretly paying Peter’s college fees and May’s bills for the next year. May screamed in horror and delight when she found out, bringing Harry into a hug that nearly deprived him of enough oxygen to cause brain damage. Peter was less excited—something about “not being a burden,” Harry hadn’t listened all that much—but it only took a few flower deliveries and a couple rounds of good sex to convince him. Harry is truly blessed.

Harry is well enough after the week of illness to walk around on his own without the use of a cane, so he pulls himself out of bed and wanders into the master bathroom. Peter is standing with his face to the spray, pushing his hands through his hair over and over again. Harry smirks and is about to move forward to join him when he claps his hand over his mouth to keep himself from yelling.

He could swear the marks down Peter’s back were scars from a whip.

Peter spins, surprise clear on his face. The spidey sense is clearly not on point today. “Damn it—Harry—“

Before he knows it, nearly full-grown man Harry Osborn is jumping into the shower with his t-shirt and Peter’s boxers on. He spins Peter around to stare at his back. “Who did this to you?” he asks quietly.

Peter sighs. “Part of the job, Oz.”

“So I have to sit here and like it?”

“You have to admit: it makes me look badass.” Peter hisses as Harry drags one of his fingers over a wound. “Hey, watch it, watch it. Spiders feel pain too, you know.”

“Who did this to you?” Harry repeats.

“Funny, I wasn’t going for his name when he was trying to kill me.”

This is definitely Peter talking, but Spider-Man could swing along at any moment with his god complex and take him away. So Harry does what he can—he peels off his shirt and boxers, tosses them onto the floor, and presses himself to Peter’s front, nuzzling into his neck (where he is clearly made to be).

Peter sighs, winding his arms around Harry’s waist. “I’m fine. Honestly. Just a bit shaken up.”

“You’re always a bit shaken up. This is different. Not waking me up when you come home, not making a valiant effort to get me out of bed in the morning—I’m being deprived.”

“Poor Harry,” Peter coos, rubbing his lower back. “Getting a little bit more sleep every day. The horror!”

“Not the point,” Harry grumbles. “You’re never _here_.” He pokes at his chest to make his point. “And when you are, you’re Spider-Man. Still with the mask on.”

Peter sighs. “I don’t know what to tell you, Harry. We’re the same person, after all.”

“Not true. Spider-Man broods, you sulk. There’s a big difference.” Harry thinks, pulling back to look him in the face. “Or, here, put it this way. When you’re upset about Peter things, you lay on the couch and eat fifty bags of chips and sigh a lot, like you’re doing now, and tell me everything’s fine until you solve the problem five minutes later like the genius you are. When you’re upset about Spider-Man things, you go to where even I can’t find you and have an existential crisis for three hours, then come home after I’ve passed out waiting for you so I can’t talk to you.”

Peter’s eyebrows rise. “You’ve done studies on this?”

“Just because it’s you. I’m worried.”

Peter averts his gaze. “I know. I mean—yeah.”

Harry makes a frustrated noise. “Peter.”

“I know, I know,” Peter chants while he rubs at his jaw. “I just—I get people killed, Harry. Because of me, people die, every day.”

“Peter,” Harry says, alarmed by the weight of the statement. “People _live_ because of you.” He grips Peter by the sides of his jaw. Peter’s eyes are panicked, focusing on every part of Harry’s face besides his eyes. “ _I_ lived because of you.”

“I know,” Peter says, his right hand sliding up to overlay Harry’s. “But you’ve almost died because of me. If I’m ever with you, and you get hurt…”

“I can take care of myself,” says Harry fiercely. “Is this the helpless-partner-of-the-superhero-has-to-stay-out-of-the-way talk? I will not have this talk with you.”

“I just want to protect you!” Peter insists, his grip tightening on his hips. There’s a pregnant pause. Peter stares intently down at Harry, lips firmly pressed together.

The millionaire takes down his walls and takes a deep breath. “I love you,” Harry repeats. “Please don’t tell me that means nothing to you.”

“No, no, no, you know it does. God, it means everything.” Peter is shaking his head so fast that the water is flying from his hair. “Every day I know you’re alive—that you’re in love with me—I got this…” His fingers move in a motion around his stomach. “Did you microwave my stomach?”

“No,” Harry says, forcing out a smile. “What about you? Hijack any of my internal organs lately?”

Peter laughs weakly along with him, clutching his hand tightly. “I just wonder if I’m doing a good thing.”

“You’ve saved this city how many times, and you’re asking that?” Harry asks, bewildered. “Let’s talk about how there’s only one lizard man in New York. Or how no one’s died from radiation poisoning or electrocution. Or how we still have power. Or—“

“Okay, okay,” Peter chuckles. “I occasionally do a good deed. Or two,” he says at Harry’s murderous expression. “Still.”

“No _still!_ ” Harry protests, slapping his chest. Peter winces. “You’re amazing, as I can personally attest to. No matter how much you try to convince me otherwise, I love you, Peter Parker.” He kisses him lightly, smiling against his lips when Peter’s grip slides down to his lower back. “And not to speak highly of myself, but that’s the only thing that should matter.”

“Mm, I’m convinced,” Peter chuckles. He pauses before bringing his lips back to Harry’s. “Just promise me if something happens—if something happens to me, you don’t stop running.”

“No,” Harry says, and before Peter can protest, he kisses him again, pulling him away from the spray towards the wall. When his back hits the wall, he purrs, “So appreciate me while I’m here.”

“You’re impossible,” Peter groans, kissing down his neck. “Fucking impossible. Love you.”

“I know,” Harry says breathily. “But show me again?”

“Greedy,” Peter says, but obliges, gripping him tighter and pulling him upwards. Harry goes willingly and wraps his legs around Peter’s waist—there’s a reason he loves to take advantage of Peter’s strength.

“I am,” Harry says before licking up his jaw. “I can’t get enough of you.”

“Flattering,” Peter laughs throatily. His cock is growing hard against Harry’s ass as he reaches for the lube.

Harry’s own erection is heavy on his stomach. He grips at Peter’s shoulders as the other boy squeezes out lube onto his fingers. “You do like receiving compliments.”

“True,” Peter says, easing a finger into Harry. The other boy gasps and lets his head fall back, hitting the tile with a thud. “I like you more.”

Harry keeps himself from yelling by latching onto Peter’s neck like a lamprey, giving Peter a bruise that’s probably going to last another week. Thank god Spider-Man wears a mask. Peter grunts and slides in another finger, scissoring him open. Harry pulls off, the alternative being to actually bite off a piece of his boyfriend, and simply lays his head on Peter’s shoulder instead.

Peter laughs quietly. “You okay?”

“Define okay,” Harry says, his fingers scratching at Peter’s chest. “If by okay you mean barely able to hold myself together because you haven’t properly fucked me in three weeks and my vibrator broke two weeks ago, then yes, I am okay.”

“I’d have bought you a new one. Or done it myself.”

Harry moans as Peter fucks him open slowly, sliding in a third finger after a moment. “ _Peter._ I can take it, please.”

“Not after two weeks, you can’t.” Peter licks at the shell of his ear. “Liar.”

“Your fault,” Harry gasps. He pulls his nails down Peter’s chest with one hand, leaving red lines in his muscles, and strokes himself with the other. “Fuck me.”

Peter crooks his fingers, bumping Harry’s prostate, and Harry lets out a wail, bucking against Peter’s hips. “Please,” he says brokenly after catching his breath. He looks at him with half-lidded eyes. “Need you.”

Peter gives him a look with suddenly dark eyes and pulls out his fingers, Harry groaning at the emptiness. He reaches under to squeeze at Harry’s ass then pushes himself in, grunting as Harry clenches around him. “Relax,” he murmurs, bring a hand up and stroking his cheek with his thumb. “Love you.”

Harry lets his eyes flutter closed and takes a deep breath. Peter eases in until he’s seated fully inside him, sighing with relief. “Good boy.”

Harry puts his head forward until his forehead rests against Peter’s. “I do love you.”

“I know,” Peter says, rocking his hips up into Harry’s. “Let me show you.” He kisses him, the hand that isn’t holding Harry up cupping his jaw.

He licks into Peter’s mouth. “Don’t get all sappy on me,” Harry murmurs. “Just fuck me.”

“Can’t do both at once?”

“Try,” Harry pleads under his breath.

Peter takes that to heart and draws out a little bit, then slamming back into him. Harry gasps and slaps his hands against the wall. “Wow. First time’s the charm.”

Peter laughs and sets his pace at a rough and hard rhythm. All Harry can do is bring his hands back to Peter’s shoulders and hang on as much as he can as Peter pushes him back against the wall. He misses being full—his own fingers aren’t enough, not Peter. Not the warmth and his long body pressed against his. Harry grasps for Peter’s hand and threads his fingers through the other boy’s. Peter kisses him as gently as he can with the pace and Harry being knocked continuously back.

It’s an odd thing to say, but this is them.

Harry gasps when Peter hits his prostate again. “Fuck—Peter. There.” Peter angles his hips again, and soon he’s hitting the spot on every thrust. Harry’s thighs shake despite being held up, and he takes one hand off Peter to stroke himself. “Close, babe.”

“Gonna come for me?” Peter asks softly, kissing him quickly.

Harry nods, gripping his hand tighter. “Please, so close.”

“You’ve been so good, baby, come on,” Peter urges in a low voice. He pushes deeper, drawing Harry’s legs up higher. “Know you can.”

Harry shudders and curves into Peter. There’s a tightening in his stomach, then Peter hits his prostate again, and the feeling surges. He lets out a keen, squeezing himself at his base, and it only takes a few good strokes and thrusts before he’s coming over Peter’s stomach.

Peter moans and kisses him again while Harry pulses through his orgasm. He pulls Harry’s legs up again, causing the smaller man to gasp. Harry clenches around him, reaching up to whisper shakily in his ear, “Come for me, please, need you in me.” Peter shudders and slams up into him one last time before spilling into him. He mouths at Harry’s collarbone as he rides it out, slowing and eventually resting his head against Harry’s shoulder.

Harry lets out a breathy laugh. “Missed you.”

“Mm.” Peter eases out of him, which Harry hisses at, before lowering him to the ground.

Harry grumbles, swaying and hanging onto Peter for support. “Mm is right. You might have to carry me to bed.”

Peter chuckles, kissing his forehead. “You’ll be the death of me, Osborn, I swear you will.”

“If its anything else, I’ll kill you,” Harry says. “If you’re quite finished, let’s go. I need to be back in bed for the next two hours or I’ll die.”

“I have class, Oz.”

“Which you’re passing. No one will care if you’re late.” Harry tugs at his hair, pulling him down to kiss him lightly. “Or if you miss a day. Take a day off, stay with me.”

“Harr—“ Peter protests.

“Sh, Parker,” Harry sings. “You’re with me today, in compensation for all the times you’ve been gone. You’ve brought this on yourself.” He taps Peter’s chest and turns off the spray. “There’s towels outside; come on.”

Peter sighs and relents, supporting Harry out of the shower and toweling himself off. “I don’t know why I do these things for you.”

“You love me,” Harry says warmly, taking his own towel and viciously rubbing at his hair.

“Well, there’s that.” Peter snatches him up before he’s done and carries him back to the bedroom whilst Harry squirms to try to dry off his legs. He tosses him a pair of boxer briefs than climbs in after him, sliding in under the blankets like only a true sleep-deprived person can. Harry snuggles back into his arms, threading their legs together (which Peter will complain about but secretly loves).

“Glad you’re not passing out on the couch anymore,” he says quietly, craning his neck to look at Peter. “Made me feel like we were fighting.”

“I hate fighting with you,” Peter say, kissing his forehead again. “You always win.”

Harry chuckles and flops back down on his chest. “Go to bed, idiot.”

“Same for you,” Peter says teasingly. “Genius.”

That’s better.


End file.
